


Half alive

by CabiriaMinerva



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Golems, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Peaches and Plums (The Magicians), Post-Season/Series 04, Proof of Concept (The Magicians), Song fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23775493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CabiriaMinerva/pseuds/CabiriaMinerva
Summary: When Eliot wakes up after months of being possessed by the Monster, finally ready to be brave, Q is dead. But as Q, convinced that he has made the ultimate yet necessary sacrifice, moves on in the Underworld and finds his eternal, somewhat happy(ish) place, his friends can't just let him go.
Relationships: Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 10
Kudos: 68





	1. I. Mapping the Maze

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fishydwarrows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishydwarrows/gifts).



> This fic has been inspired by the beautiful art of fishydwarrows: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JAZFFy7uerQ  
> If you haven't watched it yet, do it. Both the video and the song are absolutely lovely and amazing!

**Eliot**

The first time Eliot opens his eyes in the infirmary, all he sees is an opaque blur of colours. Everything is so cold, why are his feet so cold? Maybe he should get back to sleep, because he's also terribly tired, but there's a noise so close to his ears... uh, wait, he knows that noise. It's a voice. Annoyingly close, annoyingly loud. He closes his eyes, mumbling softly, «Mmh.»

«Eliot? El? Honey, you are at Brakebills, Lipson needs to run some tests and then...» Margo voice fades into the other noises. Other voices. Everyone so, so close and loud...

Then something brushes against his cheek. Something soft, familiar... In spite of the tiredness that's whispering he should go back to his dreamless sleep, Eliot's eyelids slowly open. Not much, just enough to let the light filter through his lashes. It kinda hurts, all that light, but he needs to see what... who is touching him. Because he has the feeling he _knows_ that soft touch, but everything is so confused right now.

There's a foggy figure, no, wait, two. Two foggy figures. Blinking twice, Eliot tries to focus. Long, dark hair. A bright red dress.

His lips curls into the tiniest of smiles: Bambi.

But it's not just her. A hand tucking a strand of hair a lighter shade of brown. A scent he would recognise everywhere.

_Peaches. Peaches and plums._

_Do you remember me?_

His mouth is dry and no sound comes out of it when he tries to say something.

_Peaches. I was wrong. I am... sorry? Sorry, I am sorry._

Water, that's what he needs to talk, to _tell him_. He lifts a finger, or at least he tries, and god why is it so hard and painful? It feels like a million needles are prodding his muscles. And it's completely useless, since the two figures don't even notice the movement.

_I want to be braver, Q._

_I will be braver. I swear._

Then Margo bends over him, softly explaining something about drugs, blood, operation. But Eliot isn't paying attention, because the other figure is leaving.

_Don't leave. Quentin. Don't leave me._

Something way bigger than the needles currently tormenting every single inch of his body is making its way into his forearm. It burns.

_Stay..._

Everything goes black again.

* * *

The second time Eliot opens his eyes, the room is plunged into darkness. Everything is silent, now, and he's alone. It takes him a few moments to remember everything: monster. Axes. Margo at his side. Quentin.

He swallows down the dry lump in his throat and then turns towards where he thinks he'll find a night stand with, he hopes, some water on it. Luckily, someone must have thought he would need it, because there it is, a bottle of water. But it's so fucking far, and he is exhausted... His fingers bend automatically into tuts, but as everything else, his casting right now is confused and messy, and the water bottle falls from the night stand with a thud.

Eliot groans just as the light in the hallway turns on, and squeezes his eyes shut.

«El, honey, are you alright?» Margo's voice is soft, and so is her hand on his cheek, moving in a slow, loving caress. «Were you trying to get some water?» There is a muffled sound and then something hard is pushed against his lips. «El, drink.»

He slightly opens his lips and the feeling of water on his parched tongue is so good, he could almost moan. How long since he last drank anything? Well, his body probably did drink at some point, but him... He drinks the few sips Margo pours in his mouth with immense gratitude, then he opens his eyes.

«Thank you,» he croaks.

Margo's smile is tight and there is something almost awkward in her gaze. Maybe it's just his imagination, or the drugs... it could also be the fact that he has been possessed by a fucking monster who has done unimaginable things with _his_ body. Is she...

«Are you afraid of me?» Anguish clutches his heart. What has it done with his body? What things...

«God, no! No, El, it's not...» she quickly answers, almost shocked that he could think that of her. «Don't be an ass, I could never be afraid of you! I mean, what could you even do? Pick the olive out of your Martini and then throw it at me? Come on,» she adds, trying to maintain a light, humorous tone.

Eliot forces the corner of his mouth into a small smile, which falls as soon as Margo's eyes lock with his. She may not be afraid of him, but something feels awfully off. He just doesn't know _what,_ but he doesn't want to push her – to be honest, he doesn't even know if he has the strength to say much more. Fatigue and pain wash over him in slow waves, making it difficult to keep his eyes open.

«Why don't you try and sleep some more? We'll talk in the morning, baby. Sleep,» Margo quietly murmurs while tenderly caressing his hair, and the movement is so soothing that Eliot can only let himself slip back into sleep.

* * *

When Eliot opens his eyes the next morning, everything feels a little bit better. His tongue is still a bit dry, but he manages to get the water bottle on his own (with his hands, because he doesn't trust his casting ability just yet). The pounding in his head has mostly subsided and the daylight doesn't bother him that much. An almost contented sigh escapes his lips as he lazily looks around. He can ear sounds and muffled voices coming from outside the room, but he can't make them out. It's probably the staff discussing treatments. Or something. Or whatever, who cares. He is him again, no murderous monster possessing his body, no drama. And he can finally be brave, as he promised Quentin's memory.

His heart speeds up a little at the thought of Quentin, his lips curling into a smile. Q.

Yes, he is ready to be brave, come what may.

When the door opens, hopes does to him what spring does to cherry trees and... when has he become so cheesy? He softly laughs away the fluttering sensation in his stomach. Still, he hopes it's Quentin, so when Margo appears he wouldn't say he's _disappointed_ , but well... Maybe, just a little? He's happy to see her, of course, can't wait to cuddle up with her on the couch and listen to her adventures in his absence, but he also wants to see Quentin.

«Hey, Bambi,» he greets her with an almost shy smile before opening his arms in invitation.

When she's in his embrace, he buries his nose in her long, dark hair and inhalse her scent: it's a mix of honey and lavender and it makes him smile, the paradox of such a delicate perfume on such a badass. But then again, right now, in his arms, she's just his Bambi.

«Don't you dare do something like that ever again, do you understand me?» she murmurs against his neck.

«You mean try to kill a monster and get possessed? I'll try my best not to,» Eliot huffs, slightly amused, before adding, in a much softer tone, «I missed you too.»

A few moments pass in silence, then Margo straightens and directs her gaze towards the floor, as if trying to focus.

«Look, I...» She lifts her eyes, ever the brave one, and at the exact moment their eyes meet, he _knows_. He doesn't know _what_ exactly has happened, but he _knows_ this won't be pleasant. And maybe some recondite part of his soul truly _knows_. Because he is Eliot Waugh, the unwanted child, the bullied teen, the broken man hiding behind drugs and alcohol. And, of course, why would he deserve the chance to rectify his mistakes, to be brave?

Still, when the words leave Margo's mouth, the floor opens up underneath them and Eliot feels the air being punched out of his lungs.

«There is no easy way to tell you this but, El, Q...» Margo's hand moves to rest over his but her eyes are still on his face. Ever the brave, his Bambi. She wouldn't cock out at a moment like that. «He never came back from the Seam. I...» She swallows and tightens her jaw. «Q is dead.»

**Quentin**

Attending his own funeral is one of the most painful things Quentin has ever done. And he has _died._ In the Mirror World. In a whirlwind of magical sparks. _S_ o, you see, he knows pain.

But this, his friends gathered around a bonfire, throwing things in it (and did Penny 23 really throw a fucking egg in it? _An egg_? Why did he keep it in the first place? It's not as if they were really friend or anything... well, not that it matters now)... it's the kind of raw and pure pain that flows in your veins and clutches your lungs into its grip, threatening you to crush them. Which is... odd, since he supposes he doesn't really need lungs anymore, right?

And then, Eliot and Margo arrive. Margo is helping Eliot, one tiny arm around his waist, eyes dry but lips trembling. And Eliot. Eliot, his back slightly bent so that he can rest his weight on the cane. Eliot, deep, purple shadows under his eyes. Eliot, dark curls unusually untamed, framing his face. Eliot, his voice clear when he sings along the spell.

_So needless to say_

_I'm odds and ends_

Is it possible to feel your heart break even after death? Because Quentin is pretty sure that this is what it feels like when it does.

Letting out a trembling breath, he reminds himself that his sacrifice isn't for nothing. His friends, his family... eventually their pain will become a dull memory and their life will go on. They will have love, magic, everything.

_But I'll be stumbling away_

_Slowly learning that life is okay_

Squeezing his eyes, he silently repeats that it was not in vain. It was not in vain. Not in vain. This thought is the only thing keeping him from falling apart. _Could I even fall apart, now? Is that... allowed?_ he lazily wonders.

For one brief moment he lets his mind roam free into this future of theirs in which he has no place. Jules doing great things, because she has the heart of a true goddess; Alice, becoming the greatest Master Magician there ever was, because she's smart and compassionate (when she feels like it) and stronger than anyone he has ever met; Margo, returning to her throne and being the best High King Fillory could ever deserve; Kady, with her hedgewitches (because he just knows that she will manage to reunite and guide them all, she has always had this big dick energy and at times he has thought she was somewhat unappreciated in their little gang); Penny, Josh and Fogg... well, they're Penny, Josh and Fogg, he's sure they won't really cry their eyes out.

And Eliot. Eliot, draped in brocade and damask. Eliot, his long fingers intertwined with those of someone who isn't him, running through blond, black, short, long hair. Eliot, his lips curling into a smile that isn't meant for him. Eliot. _Will you miss me, when the shock of grief will give way to the new normal?_ Eliot, the heady scent of whatever the hell he puts in those dark curls of his (once, in that timeline they never lived, he had spent three hours rambling about how he missed his conditioner. Three fucking hours. And OK, chamomile he knows... but what even are amla and calendula?). Eliot, the soft, almost amusing grunts he sometimes makes when he's sleeping.

Eliot. Eliot, who's reaching into his pocket to pull out a peach. Before throwing it into the fire, he brings it to his nose, breathing in its sweet scent, lips brushing against its soft skin.

Quentin's lips curve downwards and his throat burns.

_It was not in vain. Not in vain. It wasn't._

The pained expression on Eliot's face crushes his heart.

He can't take this anymore. Yes, it was not in vain and everything he did he did it for _them_ , so that _they_ could live and love and laugh and be everything he could never be, do everything he could never do. But saying goodbye sucks, and it hurts, and he's afraid that if he stays longer he will never be able to go.

«I think I'm ready to go.»

* * *

When Penny gives him the MetroCard, Quentin kind of expects a train to be there to take him... somewhere? To the place he is meant to go, wherever that might be?

Instead, after crossing the white frame he finds himself surrounded by leaves and branches before stumbling into a very familiar place. He pauses and his heart tightens a little at the sight of Brakebills. It's a warm afternoon and the sky is clear. So, how... how does that work? Penny had said something about the Underworld being slightly different for Librarians and other souls, something about finding one's happy place or some crap like that. So maybe, he figures, this is like browsing a catalogue: you go through the pages (or, well, places) until you find the one you want to buy, stay in... whatever that is, he probably should move, because the hedges are definitely not his happy place, and he's probably about to have a rash on his skin.

«Great, I'm dead and I still get rashes,» he grumbles as he makes his way toward the side of the school where the Cottage is. Or should be, he isn't sure. The real thing liked to change spot, from time to time.

When he's almost at the main building's entrance, Quentin stops suddenly. There, on the large concrete wall, lies a young man. A cigarette between his lips, long body clad in ivory and brown. He looks younger, relaxed, just has he had the day they had first met. In front of him, there's a younger version of himself.

At first, Quentin is too astonished to say or do anything. He just stares at the two young men as the first one hops off the wall and approaches other-Quentin with his aura of languid nonchalance.

The tall, slender man tilts his head, studying other-Quentin and saying his name in a very snobbish way before sticking the cigarette back in his mouth and offering him his hand. «I'm Eliot.»

The whole «stalking your past self» is a bit weird, to be honest. And he's not sure what would happen if he chose this moment, this place. Would he absorb other-Quentin, like in one of those sci-fi movies? Would the other-Quentin _feel_ something? No, no, that would be stupid, there is no _other-Quentin._ This is just him watching a very high quality teaser of what his eternity would be like if he chose to stay here.

And as he watches himself follow Eliot, Quentin realises that yes, he had once been happy here: the hours spent in the library, bending over old, dusty books; the cosiness of his room at the Cottage; the warmth of being surrounded by his friends. Happy, whole, alive. But now he isn't so sure this is actually his happy place, because how can he just spend an eternity pretending that he can live with this younger version of...

A trembling sigh leaves his lips. Images of a funeral that now seem so far away in time come back in a blur. Long, dark lashes brushing against pale skin. White knuckles tight around the silver handle of a black cane.

No. _No!_

Quentin shakes his head and everything around him fades into a sequence of moments and images of his past: classes at Brakebills, the snow falling on his fur at Brakebills South, Alice and her soft skin under his hands, a crown being placed on a head full of dark curls. Most of those moments are happy moments, yes, but there are also many dark ones. A head full of moths, icy blue eyes staring at him from what once was Alice's face, Eliot fingers closing around his throat (but it's not Eliot, not Eliot, not Eliot, he keeps reminding himself).

So okay, maybe this catalogue of memories isn't exactly what he had thought at first, because he's pretty fucking sure that there is no way his happy place has the Beast or the Monster in it.

It looks more like a hurried summary of his life after Brakebills (which is... strange, but yeah, he doesn't make the rules). A summary of all the moments he got to be with his friends. Of all the laughters and the tears. It's bitter-sweet, if he has to be totally honest – which, he supposes, it's kinda one of the perks of being dead. He gets to be absolutely honest about everything, because... well, what else could happen? He's already dead.

As they draw near the end, the images and noises and the blurs of emotions start to slow down. An entire lifetime, or, you know, a very intense few years, gone by in a matter of seconds, or maybe he's been in here for a century, he couldn't really say. The only thing Quentin can feel is a dull ache where he thinks his heart should be. He... he misses his friends. He misses Alice, Margo, Jules... Eliot.

He misses them and part of him wishes he had run faster, talked less, done everything differently... but, he didn't. And so now he gets to spend.. years? All of eternity?, on his own. Missing his friends. Missing...

Squeezing his eyes, Quentin swallows hard. He can't stay here, surrounded by the ghosts of a life he left behind. This is too painful.

Was that the point of this really fucked up slideshow? To make him feel even worse? Or to... to... he doesn't even know anymore, he just wants some peace, is it too much to ask?

When he opens his eyes, the images around him fade into a multitude of greens and whites. Blinking against the bright light, Quentin tries to find his bearings. Until a familiar scent hits him.

It's earthy and woody, and he can smell the sweetness of the peaches.

_Home._

  
  



	2. II. Made of clay

**Eliot**

  
  


Eliot doesn't _mope._ No. He elegantly drinks himself stunned. That's more his style, and he's really good at making it look like he's simply being... him. Of course everyone knows he's grieving. Quentin was his best friend, after all. But they don't think much of it when he makes what seems a natural transition from Brakebill's infirmary to the liquor cabinet at Kady's loft.

Everyone is grieving a little, trying to cope in their own ways, right? And, you see, of course Quentin was his best friend, but he was first Julia's friend. Julia, who has met him when they were children and has spent years at his side,. And she was faring pretty well, all things considered. Not that she wasn't a mess right after Quentin's death, no. She has spent at least one week barricaded in her bedroom, coming outside to eat once in a while, dark circles under her eyes. But then things have started to go better, slowly, gradually. And now, one month and a half of mourning later, she almost looks like her old self.

Alice, on the other hand, isn't doing so great. Not from what he's heard, at least. But she's hat her mom's, so he doesn't really know how she is. She must be devastated. He knows, because there was talk of it, that she and Quentin had gone back together right before he... he...

Eliot gulps down what's left of the whiskey he has poured only minutes ago. His legs wobble a little when he gets up to refill his glass, but he doesn't care. It's the middle of the afternoon, no one is here, and he doesn't give a fuck anymore, anyway. As the amber liquid falls into the glass, he wonders if he's a dick for not going to check on Alice. _Not that she checked on you, either_ , a bitter voice whispers in his ears. No, of course she didn't. Why would she? He was just Quentin's... Eliot squeezes his eyes shut, reminding himself that he has no right whatsoever to be mad at anyone (except, maybe, surely, at himself). Alice was Quentin's girlfriend. They loved each other (and oh, how sour his saliva tastes in his mouth at the thought. But whose fault was it, mh?)

_Yeah. That's right. Yours._

With a frustrated grunt, he decides to forgo the glass (not before draining what he has already poured in it) and goes directly for the bottle. He would have drunk it all anyway, so why bothering.

He knows his anger towards Alice isn't rational. It's not her fault he is an idiot who fucked up everything again and again and again.

_But Quentin came back to her. To her. To her. You were right, after all. Given the choice..._

The whiskey burns as it slides down his throat. He's being unfair and he perfectly knows it. But he feels like he has been torn apart and stitched back together with a very low-quality thread, and the ache is almost unbearable. He has felt this way for weeks now. Since...

Before making his way back to the couch, he grabs another battle. It doesn't even matter of what, he just... takes whatever is closest. Still too many thoughts are whirling inside his brain, which means he's not drunk enough. Not yet.

A few moments later he's sprawled on the dark suede sofa, the cold hem of the bottle at his lips.

Maybe he could actually manage to drink himself to death, this time. He feels like he'd deserve it. So, when the whiskey is all but gone, he turns to the other bottle. _Mmh,_ he thinks after the first, generous sip, _vodka. Yes, that could do._

«Okay, that's enough.» A familiar, caustic voice startles him, making him spill some of the vodka on his chin.

«Uh, hello Bambi, I didn't hear you come in,» he says off-handedly.

«Your head's stuck in your ass too deep?»

Good, Margo is mad. At him. Just what he needs.

«Someone's had a bad day,» he blurts out, a little too thick.

«Oh, no. My day was delicious. I rubbed one off right before breakfast, then I went for a quick trip to Fillory in order to retrieve my boyfriend so that someone else can take care of my clit when I wake up. While I was at it, I put things in motion to have my kingdom back. And then I came back to what's left of the person I care most in the world.» Margo gestures vaguely towards him, a faint disgusted look on her face.

«I am perfectly fine, thank you very much.» Eliot tries to sound offended, but his voice betrays him, making him sound more like a pathetic addict stuttering that he can stop whenever he wants.

«Are you trying to tell me that you are drinking vodka straight from a bottle, _at_ _room temperature_ , and haven't washed your hair in, what, one week?, because you are _fine_?» Her left eyebrow raises dangerously, but then her expression suddenly changes into something softer, almost pained. Crossing the few meters between them, Margo gracefully sits on the corner of the couch. Close enough for him to see her worried look, but far enough to make her point: he isn't himself and she doesn't know what to do with this Eliot who isn't her Eliot and won't talk to her. «El.» Her perfect, plump lips tremble almost imperceptibly and Eliot feels his stomach churning. «I miss you.»

«I'm right here,» he replies, but it sounds feeble.

«No, you're not. I feel...» She exhales, steadying herself: feelings aren't really _their_ thing. They never were. But so much has changed. «I feel like part of you never came back. I can only imagine what you must have lived through while the Monster was riding your body, but you can talk to me, you know that.» It almost sounds like a question.

Eliot is slightly taken aback. Yes, having a godlike entity going on a killing spree in your body, taking breaks only to snort coke and to terrify your friends isn't the best of experiences, but he has been so wrapped in his grief over Quentin that he has barely thought about that. And he had spent most of his time in his happy place or in his most embarrassing memories, after all.

«I... It's not...»

His glassy eyes move on the clear liquid inside the bottle. The urge to gulp it down is strong, but his loyalty to Margo is even stronger. Still, he doesn't know how to tell her... and should he even tell her?

Margo scoots a little closer and rests her hand on his forearm, eyes pleading. And oh, shit. Margo doesn't do _pleading_. She's a fierce warrior, she gets what she wants with sweat and blood (usually, not hers). And maybe it's that, or maybe it's the alcohol (probably a combination of both), but he finds himself spilling the words he has tried so hard to bottle up. «I lost him. I had just found him again and I lost him and I couldn't even tell him...»

Confusion briefly flashes in Margo's eyes, only to be replaced by sudden realisation.

«Quentin,» she says the word carefully, slowly, as if she's afraid the name will bite her.

Eliot looks away. He didn't mean to say anything, not to anyone, especially not to Margo, because she knows him too well. And he doesn't want what he knows is coming. The pity. The support. He doesn't deserve it, okay? He simply doesn't. He doesn't want it. Just... give it to someone who can use it to do something good with themselves.

«Baby, why didn't you tell me?» She sounds... hurt. Of course she is. They have been Margo and Eliot for so long, yet he hasn't told her. But she doesn't seem surprised, so this must be more a confirmation of her suspicions than a real surprise.

«Would it have changed things?» he asks, uncertain whether he's being bitter or imploring. Maybe both.

«I would have been there for you, asshole,» she murmurs, her head now resting against his shoulder. They are silent for a few moments, then she asks, «Did he know?»

Eliot closes his eyes, pained. Memories of peaches and plums and a throne room and a crippling fear wrapping its claws around his lungs.

_I love you, but you have to know that that's not me and that's definitely not you, not when not when we have a choice._

«I'm not sure. We...» Well, fuck it. «Do you remember the Mosaic?» He feels Margo nodding against him. «I... We...» He inhales deeply, steadying himself: «I know we never lived it, not _us,_ not really. But we. We somehow remembered pieces of it, these, uh, these beautiful pieces, and it was...» Eliot didn't mean for this to happen, but now the words seem to just fall from his tongue. «We loved each other for a really, really long time, and, uhm, so, you know, uh, I promptly told him to fuck off, and... and... you know, he,» Oh god it feels as if someone is ripping his heart from his chest and making confetti out of it, «he... he died for me.» An almost hysterical, watery laughter escapes his lips. Margo's fingers on his tighten on his arm. «So you see, I don't know if he knew... if he believed... I wanted to be brave, Bambi. For the first time in my life I wanted to be, but...» he trails off. God, why is this so difficult, so painful?

Margo pulls away just enough to move her huge deer eyes on him. «You, Eliot Waugh, are one of the bravest people I've ever met. Don't you dare doubt that.»

«I...» Eliot sighs, knowing full well this is not a negotiation, although he doesn't feel brave. Not at all.

Margo settles back against him, hugging him. «Now listen to me very carefully, because I will not repeat myself on the subject. He was brave, our Q. Fiercely so. He wore his heart on his sleeve and would never wave off a quest of any kind. He stood up to a murderous monster, unrelenting in his mission to bring you back, even when it seemed like a hopeless cause. And yes, you've been an ass, and I know where you were coming from. I know. But you have been so brave, El, can't you see? You are so brave.»

They cuddle in silence for a while.

  
  


* * *

«Abso-fucking-lutely not.»

Eliot brings his long fingers to his temples, massaging them to rub away his frustration. This just won't do, now, will it? They've been at it for an hour and it feels like they're nowhere near the end of this discussion. So what if there are dangers? He doesn't care, why should Margo get to decide for him?

«You are not doing this, Eliot. I won't let you.» The glare she shoots him could freeze a volcano, but he can be just as stubborn.

«You're being overly dramatic, Alice said...»

«I don't give a flying fuck about what Alice said. If she's so confident, she can go get the job done herself. I don't like this and I'm not letting you do this to me again.» Her lips slightly tremble and Eliot feels the guilt hitting him in the guts, although they both know that they'll have more chances of succeeding if Alice is there to cast the spell.

How many times has he promised her he won't to something stupid again, and how many times has he broken his promise? Too many, that's for sure. But maybe this could be the last time? If he's brave enough to pull this off, maybe then he could just... rest for a while, you know? He wants to tell her, to promise her that this is the last time, no more saving the world, no more fighting against monsters and gods and planets (yes, he does know the moon isn't a planet, he's not Sherlock Holmes).

«Bambi...» His voice comes out a pleading whisper, bouncing off her glacial (and, thank god, metaphorical... this time, at least) shield.

Margo crosses the few steps that separates them and stares up at him, one hand hovering between them before settling on his jaw. It's tiny, everything that's Margo is tiny, but he can feel her magic buzzing right under her skin, barely contained by her will. «Last time you took things in your hands I thought I had lost you and I was devastated. I know how you feel because I felt the same, okay? You have to remember this, _I felt the same_. And then you almost did die on me, if you recall.»

He knows. He knows and he doesn't want to hurt her again. But... He rest his hand over hers, briefly closing his eyes. «I know.» Then he takes a deep breath. «Which is why I think you know I have to do this.» When he opens his eyes, he immediately finds hers, deep brown to his hazel. «You did the same to save me, to bring me back. And you know I wouldn't think twice before doing this for you.»

Margo looks away, then, lips tightening. She knows he's right, she knows she won't be able to stop him, but how could she just let him go to what sounds like almost certain death? And how could she  _not_ let him do this? When a few days ago Julia dragged a pale, shattered Alice through the loft's door, Quentin's book in one hand and the instructions to make a golem in her purse, explaining Alice's dumb plan for bringing Quentin back, she had known this would happen. Because, of course, together they would have found a better way. And when they did, figuring out that they could build a stronger golem by mixing the clay with some of Quentin's blood and then use a modified version of the spell that was used to create the Margolem to ensure it will be able to hold a real, whole soul (and its shade, because they don't want another shadeless arsonist, do they?), of course Eliot 'My favourite colour is self-destruction' Waugh would dive in head first, offering to go to the Underworld to guide Quentin's soul to his new body.

Margo understands, of course. Of course she does! And she loved (loves) Quentin, maybe not like El did (does), but she did love him (she does). Hell, she misses him. But... is it really selfish, wanting to protect the person you love the most? The one without which life would be unbearable? She bites her bottom lip.

«I swear I'll come back,» he says into her hair. «But I have to do this. It... it has to be me. Not just because...»  _I love him. I love him. Love him._

_Love._

_Love._

_I'm trying to be braver._

«You better, asshole,» Margo replies, adding a weak punch to his chest for good measure. «If I let you – aha,» she raises a finger, silencing the retort that starts forming on his lips, « _If_ I let you do this, I want this done the right way. No going in blind. No being a fucking hero. If the Gatekeeper is in a bad mood, you turn back. If something, anything looks potentially dangerous, you turn back. The moment shit goes sideways, you take your ass back here. _Capish_?»

Eliot tries to look offended and opens his mouth to reply that of course they're doing this the right way, but thinks better of it and sighs instead, moving to rest in chin on the crown of her head. «Does that mean you'll go to Fillory and recover the vial?» The vial of blood Quentin gave that witch when they were trying to defeat Martin Chatwin. It seems so long ago, more than a lifetime, yet it's been what? Three, four years?

«Of course I will,» she grumbles. «But you already knew that.»

Eliot tightens his arms around her, smiling against her hair. «Mhmh.»

It's decided, then. They're rescuing Q.

  
  


* * *

«You took your sweet time, asshole.»

Eliot slowly blinks before retorting with a terse, «Nice seeing you too, Penny.»

«Had I known it would take you so fucking long, I wouldn't have messed with him so much.»

Okay, now Eliot is really confused. What the fuck?

He did what he had to: once the clay body was ready (and fuck, it took so long, finding the right clay, locating the blood, getting the spellwork right, having arguments with Alice over who should and who shouldn't... Eliot has had a few intense months and more than once he has had to physically keep himself from fucking murdering someone), he took Quentin's book and went to the Gatekeeper, hoping it would accept the exchange and let him into the Underworld – possibly, without the Dragon eating him for breakfast and then burping his bones out. And then... he had found himself in an elevator? And Penny was there to wait for him when the doors slid open? With that bitch resting face of his and everything. Penny. Their Penny.

Yeah. Confusing.

«Unless you want to elaborate further so that I could actually understand what the fuck you're trying to say, could you be a dear and just point me to Quentin's direction?» Eliot huffs. He has no time to lose playing around with Penny and his shitty mood.

«Look, I'm trying to help you, okay? But I expected you much sooner, what the fuck took you so long? I told the little shit some profound, heartfelt stuff about how he changed your lives and his story ending being a necessary step and being the right time and whatever. I mean, I wasn't really lying, he was the catalyst for most of the things that happened to us, in a way. But by no means I meant it when I said he should just accept that and go on his merry way because that would be best for everyone. It was meant to be a very fucking brief joke, not a _three months_ thing. Do you even know how much time has passed in there?» Penny raises an eyebrow, questioningly.

Eliot can almost feel the gear moving around in his brain as he starts explaining himself, guilt hitting him in waves. «We only came up with the plan after a while and then finding the witch who had Quentin's blood has been more difficult than we... wait, what?» he stops when he realises hat Penny has just said. «You did _what_?»

«I was bored, okay?» Penny replies, defensively.

«You told Q he was meant to die? You told a _26 years old man struggling with depression_ that his death was necessary? What the fuck is wrong with you?» Eliot hopes his tone is bitter and angry, because Penny deserves it, but he suspects the trembling in his voice is more on the heartbroken side of the spectrum. His suspicions are confirmed by the slight change in Penny's gaze: it's softer, almost apologetic, now.

«Hey, I get bored... there isn't much to do in the Underworld Library, okay? Not even weed to get high with. Just books and people crying their eyes out at my desk.»

Eliot gives him a blank stare. If Penny wasn't already dead, he would fucking kill him with his bare hands. Q has been spending who knows how much time thinking _he deserved_ to die. Thinking that dying at 26 was somehow acceptable, that it was _needed_. That no one would come in his aid. Because now everyone got to live their lives as if he'd been just an instrument for an end.

«I fucked up, okay?» Penny offers as an apology. It's not enough, Eliot wants to tell him. It's one thing to mess with people to get a little fun, but this level of spite is too much even for Penny.

But now that Eliot knows about this _little joke_ of Penny's, he has even less time to waste. He can deal with Penny another time – or never, since okay, maybe Penny isn't in the best of places after all and they didn't really do much to get him out of there. So there's probably some cosmic balance or shit like that in this fucking mess.

«Look, I'm sorry,» Penny says – and he looks like he mean it. Maybe the Library couldn't change his innate asshole-ness, but it did smooth his rough edges off a little. «I'm not always proud of my choices, okay? But I want to make it up to him, if you'll let me?»

Eliot's lips are a thin line, but they relax a little as he nods, and so does his forehead. Ugh, not too many years ago he wouldn't have frowned like that for fear of the consequences on his wrinkle-free skin. But at the time, he was barely more than a boy pretending to be a grown-up. How things change.

With a crooked smile, Penny takes a moment to rummage in the drawer of his desk. When he's done, in his hand there's a small card, not bigger than a credit-card. It's completely white.

When he hands it to Eliot, the latter doesn't immediately take it, elegantly arching an eyebrow instead. «If this is a limitless otherworldly credit card, I'm moved and if I wasn't trying to bring,» _who, Eliot? Are you afraid of saying it out loud?_ , «my friend home, I'd be more than happy to take Margo on a nice shopping spree. But as you might imagine, I'm in a bit of a hurry.»

«Ah ah, very funny.» Penny rolls his eyes. «This is a MetroCard. Take it, it will bring you to him. Just... take it, then go to the white door at the end of the hallway, I'm sure you'll find your way from there.»

Eliot observes the seemingly innocuous card, part of him screaming that this is too easy. Could it really be, so easy? His eyes searches Penny's face for a sign, anything, that indicates this might in fact be a trap. But he looks genuine and, in spite of it all, Eliot trusts him. Swallowing, he closes his fingers around the small card.

«Thank you,» he says with strangled voice before turning around and vanishing through the door.


	3. III. Made in Glory

**Quentin**

  
  


It's a lovely, lukewarm spring day. Quentin has spent the morning tending to the vegetable garden that is located right behind the cottage, plucking weeds, checking that the beans are well supported, driving moles away. All the while keeping an eye on Teddy, playing on his own with some wooden toys not too far from him.

God, he's already so big, and getting bigger by the day. It's getting a little harder to lift him over his head and throw him in the air, but he still does it, the silvery cascade of giggles the best rewards in the entire world.

Even though Quentin knows, rationally, that this isn't really Teddy, that his son is relegated in a pocket universe where he hasn't really lived, he can't avoid the lump in his throat and his heart overflowing with love. Having his son – _his son –_ again in his arms, singing to him (very off-key) lullabies and watching his little eyes flutter close, trying to get him to eat the goddamned turnip soup (he hates the thing, okay? But turnips grow easily and he has limited skills when it comes to cooking, which is why he usually let... no, he's not going there. He doesn't want to. Still too painful), is one of the best feeling in the world.

And he gets to do this, to live in this perfect bubble of happiness and love and little fingers tugging at his sleeves when his mind gets lost in memories – for all eternity. Although he still misses his friends, he couldn't have asked for a better life. Or, well, not life. Whatever.

«Again, daddy, again!» The little despot protests against his twenty seconds of inactivity, dragging him back to the present.

«Okay, okay,» he grumbles, but his lips are already curving into a smile. «But I'll need a kiss to regain my strength, you wouldn't want me to get tired, right?» he adds in a thoughtful tone.

Teddy narrows his eyes (they're grey, just like Arielle's... sometimes he wonders why she isn't here as well), evaluating him with a seriousness that looks almost comical before nodding once and launching himself forward to plant a wet kiss on Quentin's cheek.

«Aaah! I feel stronger already!» Quentin says with a laughter, throwing Teddy once more in the air, more giggles raining all around him.

He's so focussed on the moment that he barely hears the rustle coming from the bushes at the other side of the yard, his brain automatically dismissing it as a noise caused by some small animal disturbed by their playfulness. Because, seriously, what else could it be? This is a custom made, afterworld bubble, it's not as if some could accidentally stumble upon it and...

«Q.»

Quentin freezes, his fingers slightly tightening around Teddy's small waist. He blinks once. Twice.

«Quentin.» The trembling voice says again.

As his heart clenches in his chest, Quentin's brain starts to frantically make sense of what his ears are hearing. Ever so slowly, he turns his head towards the voice, and his mouth falls open in shock. He feels Teddy squirming in his hands, annoyed by the interruption and uninterested in staying around to see what caused it. His arms move automatically, putting the child down. A small pang of guilt tugs at his stomach when he can't bring himself to check where his son is going, but Quentin can't divert his gaze because what his eyes are seeing is just... impossible.

This isn't supposed to happen. He has chosen carefully, he has found somewhere where his pain could be smothered by everything that is Teddy, where most days he barely has time to think about what (whom) he has left behind.

«No, I-» Quentin looks around, panicking. «I walked away from those memories, you cannot be here. This is supposed to be my happy place, why are you torturing me?»

The memory with Eliot's face seems pained at his words, but Quentin knows it's just a shadow. What he doesn't know is _why_? Why is it – _he –_ here? Why now? He must have been here for... well, it's hard to say, because as it turns out, time is indeed an illusion. At least in the Underworld. But he supposes he hasn't been here _that_ long. So even if he were inclined to _add_ to his little, perfect bubble, now it is too fucking soon. Unbidden tears start welling up in his eyes.

«No, Quentin, please, I-» The shadow reaches out to him, his long fingers stretched and oh, god, how easy would it be to cave in, to let them brush against his skin. And how devastating that would be, even weeks (or is it months? Not years, it doesn't feel like years yet) after his death. Too soon, it's just too soon. Why would whoever manages the fucking Underworld try and fuck him up like this?

As a sob leaves his lips, his whole body reacts following the fight-or-flight instinct (or, well, the cry-and-flight, in his case): his hands raise to cover his face just as his pelvis rotates, turning him around, and then his feet drag him towards the cottage. He doesn't stop until he's inside, his back against the closed door. By now, hot, heavy tears are streaming down his face, his chest shattered by sobs.

«Quentin...»

The muffled voice of Eliot (no, it isn't him. It's just a shadow, just a shadow...) reaches him through the door.

«Go away! Please, _please_ , I can't...» Quentin manages to croak, his voice hoarse.

The brief silence that follows his words is broken only by a soft noise, and if it wasn't absurd Quentin would think the shadow was crying, too.

«Q.»

Quentin's heart aches hearing Eliot's voice saying his name.

«I-» Another brief silence, as if the shadow is improvising. Which... rationally, Quentin knows isn't possible. Because even though they look and sound and _feel_ like the real thing, he _knows_ they aren't really sentient. «I understand if you don't want to talk to me, but please hear me out.» His voice is strained and raspy, as if he's been really crying (it. It's just a shadow, just a shadow...). Quentin doesn't answer. He can't. «I- I fucked up. I fucked up over and over again. I fucked up when we came back, I wanted so bad to tell you _yes, god yes_ when you asked me to give us a chance. I'm sorry. I was afraid, and when I'm afraid... I run away. You probably think I am a coward, and I wouldn't blame you. I am. I would tell you all about my fucked up childhood and the voice in the back of my head that keeps me telling me I don't deserve love, nor anything good for that matter. I would tell you how I am _trying_ so hard to be braver, for you. Because of you. I would tell you everything if it could help but I don't have the luxury of time right now.»

Quentin takes in a huge gasp of air, a faint doubt slowly creeping in his chest.

«All I can tell you is that I'm sorry and that there isn't a second I don't regret it. Because if I hadn't been such an asshole that day, after we remembered... If I had told you, then, that I loved you way before we even embarked on that fucking quest...» There's a soft thud, as if Eliot has rested his forehead on the hard wooden door. «... then you wouldn't have accepted to stay in Blackspire and I wouldn't have shot the Monster and made everyone's life a living hell and you would be...» As Eliot's voice trembles a little, trailing off, Quentin's eyes flutter closed. He swallows hard, feeling Eliot pain as his own – and isn't it, after all? The same pain?

«So you see, I understand if you don't ever want to talk to me again, if you don't even want to see me.» His voice sounds pained, as if the mere idea of Quentin not wanting him around makes him suffer. «But please, I came all the way down here because... we miss you, Q. Everyone does. I-» Another brief pause. «Maybe I should have let Alice come, but I was selfish. We knew there were risks and part of me almost hoped they'd occur.» Eliot lets out a humourless laugh that chills Quentin's blood. «So please, if you want me to fuck off, I get it. And I won't... I will respect it, I won't try to interfere with your life anymore and I'll just... I'll find something, somewhere for me. But please, please come back with me, come back home. Penny lied to you, you aren't meant to be here. Yes, I know, he's an asshole. He always was, but the point is... You don't belong here. Don't make everyone else pay for my mistakes, Q. Julia can't wait to hug you and mother you until you'll regret ever coming back. Margo will probably yell at you. A lot. You know how she gets when you make her worry.» A muffled huff reaches Quentin's ears. «And Alice, well. You know. Even Penny and Kady miss you. I'm serious, they do. We... everyone really misses you, Q. It just isn't the same without you.» _Not worth it,_ are the words left unsaid. But somehow, Quentin feels them anyway. «So please, come back,» Eliot murmurs in a pleading voice that makes Quentin's chest clench.

Silence.

He doesn't know what to say, really. As the truth slowly hits him, all he can do is stand there, against a wooden door that doesn't really exist, processing Eliot's (not a shadow. Eliot. _Eliot_ ) words. And what the fuck, Penny had _lied_ to him? He had said his sacrifice had been necessary, that it had meant something. That fucker.

A rustle on the other side of the wooden door brings him back to the moment and Quentin realises that Eliot has moved from the door. He hears a muffled «I'm so sorry, Q, I-» and then a strangled sound.

As the muffled steps move away from the small cottage, Quentin's mind twirls swiftly, processing Eliot's words and bringing back the painful memories he has tried to ignore and smother under the make-believe he has lived these last few months.

He wasn't meant to die.

He wasn't meant to leave his friends.

His friends. Who miss him. Who love him.

Who _love._ _Him._

_His friends._

Quentin gasps, the reality of what is happening hitting him hard, right on his solar plexus, leaving him breathless.

He moves in a haze, his brain barely registering his hand pushing against the rough wood of the door, his feet stepping on the dusty yard and shortening the distance between him and the man who's slowly making his way to wherever he came from, his dark, curly head bent down.

_Wait._

_Wait!_

It takes Quentin a moment to realise that he's only thinking the word, that his lips are moving but nothing comes out of them. So he swallows around his fears and uncertainties and tries again.

«Wait.» The word, barely more than a whisper, leaves his lips just as his fingers brush against Eliot's wrist, tentative at first and then grabbing it, holding on to it for dear life.

And Eliot stops. Freezes to the spot at the touch, lets Quentin grab his hand and catches his breath, heart in his throat.

«Wait, please.» The words come steadier now. «I-I want to come home.»

And maybe Quentin doesn't see his face, but he knows Eliot has closed his eyes for a beat and can almost feel the trembling breath he's exhaling, relieved.

«Let's go, we don't have much time left.» Eliot's voice is choked and he doesn't look at him. But he does move his hand so that Quentin can grasp it, then he's off again, half-running toward the bushes at the end of the garden.

Quentin doesn't turn. His heart aches at the thought of leaving his boy, but his rational mind knows that this Teddy, this life wasn't real. But Eliot's hand in his is.

  
  


* * *

Life is darker than Quentin remembers. Black, truly.

Black and incredibly noisy.

He'd love to say so, but he doesn't remember how.

Something touches him, lightly brushing against his knuckles. Mmmh, okay, this isn't so bad, now, is it? Whatever it is, it touches him again, this time on his face. Oh. His face. It feels... weird. Oddly new but also, somehow known? This feeling, the feeling of being caressed... it's a nice one, something he didn't know he'd missed.

«Quentin.» Someone's saying his name, it sounds close. He knows this voice. «Quentin, wake up.»

Other voices murmurs in the background, but Quentin cannot make out what they're saying.

A light weight lands on his cheek, soft and warm, before the voice talks again: «Quentin, you need to open your eyes.»

Oh, yes, his eyes. He forgot he needs to open them in order to see. That explains the darkness surrounding him.

Ever so slowly, he lifts his eyelids, letting the dim light filter through his lashes. When the images finally come into focus, a pair of brown eyes framed in a cascade of dark curls welcomes him. Quentin's newly beating heart leaps.

«Hi, Q.» Her voice is thick with emotion and Quentin barely has to think before parting his lips.

«Jules.» It's an odd sound, his voice. His new vocal chords have never produced words before. Suddenly, Quentin realises his whole body isn't exactly his. He died, right? So that must be something else. Wait, Eliot said something about clay and a spell...

Eliot.

Right, Eliot was with him! Is he okay? Is he safe? Quentin's lips start moving again, the questions on the tip of his tongue, but Julia crushes against him, her tiny arms awkwardly wrapping around his shoulders, her face pressed against his chest. When her body starts shaking over his, Quentin realises she's probably sobbing. «Jules... are you... are you okay?»

Julia lets out an amused snort right before lifting off him and swiping her damp cheeks with the back of her hand. «Of course you come back from the dead and the first you do is worry about me being okay.» Her hand goes to cover his, and she squeezes his fingers. «I missed you so much, Q, you can't even imagine.» Her hoarse voice is pleasant, like a song he thought he would never hear again.

His lips curl into a smile. «I missed you too.» They look at each other in silence for a brief moment, then someone in the room (he doesn't recognize it, it's a cold, dark room with concrete walls, maybe a cellar?) clears their throat, making Julia startle.

«Oh, right, here, let me help you sit up, we can talk some more later, if that's okay?»

As she helps him up, Quentin nods, «Uh, yeah, I'd love that, if you want?» He's a little embarrassed at the question in his voice, and he knows Julia will probably scold him later, for even daring to doubt that this is exactly what she wants. Time with him. Her best friend. But right now, she's too busy helping his body remember (or well, learn) how to sit, to find his memories of sitting and just put them into practice.

When Quentin is finally in a more vertical position, his legs dangling on one side of the old, surgical table he was lying on, other people come into his view. With a sharp intake of air, Quentin takes in all of his friends, eyes wet with tears, sheepish, hesitant smiles curving their lips.

His friends.

Quentin feels his own lips slightly tremble before curling downward, in an expression his friends have come to known and love and... Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he finds his voice again. «Hi guys, what did I miss?» They all laugh at that, but he isn't sure if it's because he's actually being funny or if they are simply too emotional to care. Because they missed him. His friends. They... _love_ him. Him, Quentin Coldwater, a no one - he gets to be loved by this dysfunctional, emotionally traumatised, fucked up family.

He feels like he could seriously start sobbing as well, and is grateful to Margo, who stomps across the room to slap him on his shoulder and then proceeds to envelop him in a fierce embrace. «Don't you ever dare do something like that again, do you hear me Coldwater? Or I'll come personally to the Underworld and drag you out by your cock just to kill you with my bare hands,» she whispers to his ear.

The sobs that have been building up his throat subside, replaced by a hoarse cackle. «I'll try my best,» he finally lets out, which earns him a muttered, «You better,» before she lets go of him, her gaze soft in spite of her words. She caresses his cheek, just a light touch of her fingers, before retreating.

God, how he has missed this. His friends. The warmth and the constant bickering and hearts bigger than the world.

And then, after hugs and pats on his shoulders and grumbled _glad you're not dead_ ( _Uh, thanks, Penny. I think_ ), Alice leaves the corner where she's spent the last 10 minutes or so, moving towards him.

They look at each other for what feels like an eternity, both uncertain on what they should do. They had decided to try again, hadn't they? But then he had died, so what to make of it? Should he go and hug her? Maybe kiss her? It's what everyone expects, isn't it? Or maybe his death counted as a break up? Gosh, his palms are getting sweaty.

Part of him wants to keep his word, to try again, to step forwards, embrace her tightly and kiss her, feel her hair under his fingertips. It's the part that had fell in love with her, the part that still loves her, in spite of the betrayals and the mistakes and the distance. But it's not as big as it was when they'd first fell in love. It has now the shape of a memory, well treasured in his heart, for sure, but still... a memory. Something from his past, something that he feels cannot exist in his future, not as it is.

As her eyes flit to Eliot, who has been quiet the whole time, Quentin realises that she feels it too, that she _knows._

Then, her body is pressed against his in a hug that his more fraternal than anything else. Maybe this is the new shape of their love, after all. It's a bit awkward, if anything. And they should probably talk, at some point, when things have calmed down a little. But then Alice is whispering something in his ear, _we'll talk later_ , smiles, and just as quickly as she hugged him, she disappears up the stairs, following the others.

Suddenly, the cold, dark room is empty and silent.

Quentin looks at his surroundings, dumbfounded by everything that has happened in the last few hours.

He's alive. In a brand new body, but alive. With his friends, _his family_ , waiting for him to climb the stairs and join them. Drink some wine, eat pizza (ugh, pizza! He has missed it so much), catching up on whatever has been going on when he was dead. Possibly preparing for the next apocalypse or whatever.

A small smiles curves his lips.

_His friends._

_His family._

His heart swells in his chest and for the first time since he's been brought back, Quentin feels truly alive.

As he's enjoying the feeling of, well, being alive, he catches a movement out of the corner of his eyes. Slowly blinking, he realises not everyone has left the cellar: standing in front of the table where he's woken up, hands swiftly moving to clean and tidy up. Some of his dark curls have escaped the hair tie and are now falling freely on his eyes, failing to cover the dark shades under them.

Quentin only now notices how exhausted he looks – he wouldn't say he's even unkempt, but... well, his hair sure looks like it could use a good shower and his damn conditioner, and his clothes are too plain, too drab. Seeing him like this is... painful, to say the least.

Even when they were stranded for 50 years or so in Fillory, Eliot had always taken care of himself, of his appearance, finding great pride in being able to sew them clothes that somehow pleased his aesthetic sense with whatever scrap of fabric he could find, producing his own shampoo out of some weird flowers and... something (look, he got most of his memories back when he'd died, but some were a bit blurry. Or, well, okay, maybe – _maybe –_ he hadn't really listened to his explanation in the first place, too busy being distracted by the smug smile that had been on his face).

But now he looks like the shadow of himself, and Quentin wonders if...

He worries his bottom lip before letting out a, «Mh, El?»

The other man barely pauses before replying, «I just need to finish cleaning up this mess. There's clay _everywhere_ , and don't get me started on the blood. No, this won't do, I-» His words get lost in a mumble. Then, without lifting his gaze, he flatly adds, «You should go upstairs.»

Frowning, Quentin takes a few steps towards him, stopping at the other side of the table. «El, could you maybe, uhm, look at me? Please?»

To be honest, Quentin doesn't know what he's gonna say – god, he doesn't even know what he _wants_ to say. But he feels, no, he _knows_ he can't ignore whatever this is. He hasn't suffered through hell thanks to the Monster, then died, then brought back to life just to let this awkward chasm settle between them.

Eliot's words from earlier still ring in his ears, and he has no intention to pretend nothing happened.

When Eliot doesn't meet his gaze, Quentin rests his hand over his, halting the frantic movements. «El. What you said, in the Underworld...»

«It doesn't matter. I-» Eliot's voice is hoarse, pained. «I meant it when I said you didn't have to talk or see me again. As soon as I'm done here I'll... consider my options. You don't have to worry.»

Quentin blinks. Well, he didn't know what he was expecting, but that wasn't it. At all. «Is that what you think I want? Is that what _you_ want?»

Hazel eyes finally meets his, open and vulnerable in a way they've never been before. «It doesn't matter what I want. I fucked up over and over again. I understand if you–»

«Stop, please.» Quentin's grasp tightens around Eliot's hand, which tenses under his touch.

«Look, you don't have to make me feel better or anything,» Eliot starts again. «I understand, really, I do. You should go, the others are waiting for you, Alice...» His voice trails off.

«You can't possibly be _this_ dense.» Quentin's dry reply sounds almost amused. «Do you really think I would ever want this? For you to just... go away? What exactly made you think so? Was it me fighting against the fucking Monster possessing your body _for months_ , while also fighting with our _friends_ because I wouldn't let it hurt your body nor would I destroy it in a way that would also kill you? Or was it the fact that my happy-postmortem-place was the fucking cottage where _we lived_ for 50 years? You know, the one where we raised our son and fought about cabbages and made love under the stairs in silence as not to disturb said son?»

Uncertainty still haunts his lovely, yet so, so tired, face, but when Quentin raises his hand and brings it to his face, cupping it, Eliot leans into it, his eyes fluttering close. «I just...» Eliot sighs, not really knowing how to end his sentence.

«Did you mean it?» Quentin quietly asks as his thumb slowly brushes against the other man's light stubble.

«Mh?»

«What you said while you were trying to convince me to come back. Did you mean it?» There's something soft in his voice, something that sounds like hope and expectations.

Eliot slowly opens his eyes, swallowing.

_I am trying so hard to be braver,_ he had said.  _For you. Because of you_ .

«I'm not sure which part you're referring to in particular, but I can assure you everything I said was the truth, plain and simple.»

Quentin's can almost feel his heart playing a tattoo in his chest. «You know which part.» He needs to hear it. Needs confirmation, needs to know it wasn't just a ruse to convince him.

Shyly, Eliot stretches his fingers to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear – and god if that isn't something! Eliot Waugh, shy! 

Eventually, his tongue darts to wet his lips before he speaks again, «I did. I do,» he amends. «Even before we embarked on that quest, part of me  _knew_ . And after, I was just... too afraid.» Eliot shrugs. He should probably explain better, but now is not the time nor the place. And for the first time in what feels like forever, he can feel a spark of hope burning bright in his heart. «Q.» Their eyes lock. «I love you.»

Time stand stills in the few seconds before Quentin's face reacts to his words, lightning up and relaxing in a tender smile. Before Eliot can add anything more, Quentin is stretching out over the table, pressing his lips against his, basking in their soft warmth. The kiss doesn't last long, but it leaves their lips tingling. «I'm glad it only took me dying for you to come to your senses,» Quentin taunts him as they both move around the table to get closer.

«Yes, very funny,» Eliot flatly replies just as Quentin finally steps within his grasp and he can wrap his arms around him, his lips blindly looking to continue their kiss, possibly deepening it to something less chaste, if it's up to him.

«Hey, you two,» Margo's voice calls from the ground floor, annoyed. «Julia is making us wait for you two idiots to eat and I. Am. Starving. So you better come up here right now.» She slams the door, then opens it again, adding, for good measure, «Don't make me come back down there and drag you up the fucking stairs!»

Quentin hides his face against Eliot's chest, stifling a laughter mixed with soft sobs. «God, I really missed you guys.» He can feel Eliot smiling into his hair. Straightening up, he wipes the tears with the back of his hand before offering it to Eliot. «Shall we go?»

Eliot takes it, smile still hesitant, and together they start climbing the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you've enjoyed this!  
> I won't lie: comments and feedbacks are very much welcome! But in case you just want to say hi, chat or whatever, look me up on tumblr or twitter (cabiriaminerva) :)


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